


Your Tears are not my Business (Thommy I)

by causeimdifferent



Series: Thommy [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:56:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1576028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/causeimdifferent/pseuds/causeimdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas cries in the yard. But instead of Mrs. Hughes, Jimmy comes along.</p><p>"I should just get back inside, Jimmy thought, his heart quickening.<br/>Other peoples' tears made him uncomfortable. They were not his business.</p><p>But Jimmy didn't move. The man was Mr. Barrow.<br/>And if Jimmy wanted it or not - Mr. Barrow was his business."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He would be gone tomorrow. That ghastly man who'd creeped into Jimmy's bedroom. To kiss him in his sleep. Ugh! The memory alone made Jimmy shudder. And then Mr. Barrow reaching out to touch him, looking all distraught and weird, babbling something about „all there is between us“. Jimmy cringed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing between Mr. Barrow and himself.

 

He'd made that quite clear, Jimmy hoped, by shouting at him in front of Alfred, threatening to hit him even. By staring him down like a man at the breakfast table. Refusing that silly toast. What was Mr. Barrow thinking? In front of everybody? _As if I need him of all people, to offer me toast. As if it was something precious. That sorry piece of bread._ Jimmy shivered with contempt. This was all so very awkward, so embarrassing. Why was this happening to him? How could he ever even have liked Mr. Barrow, before that?

 

Liked, that Mr. Barrow seemed to like him, Jimmy, whereas he was disagreeable with almost everybody else. Jimmy had looked up to him. The way Mr. Barrow carried himself, the way he looked after himself, his whole presentation had appealed to Jimmy. He'd liked to stand close to the valet, to listen to his voice, talking about clocks, making snarky remarks. Jimmy hadn't really minded him being _so familiar_. As long as no one else was around to witness, that was. And Mr. Barrow smelled good. Jimmy had always wanted to ask him what brand of aftershave he used. But now it was too late. And Jimmy never ever wanted to smell it again anyways. How could this man assume he, Jimmy Kent, was one of _that sort_?

 

Tomorrow he would be gone – at last. Gone. Out of Jimmy's life and out of his head. Where he'd been lingering almost non-stop ever since Jimmy had talked to him on his first day. When Mr. Barrow had appeared in the doorframe as Jimmy was changing into his livery. Wearing a smile that made Jimmy feel at home without even knowing Mr. Barrow. That smile.

That rare smile. From a man who usually didn't care about smiling at anyone. Yet Jimmy had made him smile. Often. And Thomas Barrow had made Jimmy smile in return just as much. _  
_

Jimmy slipped into the yard to catch some fresh air before going to bed. To breathe freely after a whole day of being locked up inside. To enjoy some peace and quiet and solitude at least at the end of the day. And most of all: to clear his head. Before snuggling into bed to read another one or two chapters of that book that Mr. Barrow had lent him, before he'd ... done _that_ to Jimmy _._  
Jimmy quite enjoyed the story. It was gripping and he'd playfully  - and unsuccessfully - tried to coax hints from Mr. Barrow as to how it might end. He was only half way through - but now he'd better throw that blasted book away. Or rip it to shreds and burn it to cinders in the fireplace. To erase the last tangible memory of _that man_ once and for all.

 

It was drizzling slightly but Jimmy didn't care. He stepped away from the door and lifted his head to feel the refreshing spray of water on his face. Jimmy took another deep breath. And then he heard it.

 

A sniffle. Or maybe just, um, a rat brushing along something. No, there it was again. A sob? Jimmy held his breath and listened into the darkness. Yes, those noises were … sobs. Quite desperate, suppressed sobs. Someone was crying somewhere out there. Jimmy's eyes tried to pierce through the blackness towards where the noises came from. He stared towards the storage shed, standing motionless, waiting for his vision to get used to the dim light. Until a shape crouching beside the wall of the small brick building became visible. Someone in a coat, clutching a cap. Wet hair, shimmering in the moonlight. I should just step back inside, Jimmy thought, his heart quickening. Other peoples' tears made him uncomfortable. They were not his business.

 

But Jimmy didn't move. The man was Mr. Barrow. And if Jimmy wanted it or not Mr. Barrow was his business. He wished he'd feel disdain for that crouched shape weeping in the dark. But he didn't. Instead Jimmy felt something heavy deep within his stomach, as if he'd eaten bricks for supper. And a pain in his throat just like a fishbone stuck right behind his larynx. For the first time did Jimmy grasp that this whole unfortunate sleep-kiss affair was not only primarily about him and the threat to not being regarded a 'proper man' anymore. Contrary to Mr. Barrow Jimmy hadn't shed a single tear about this whole ghastly incident. Nor did he ever intend to.

Before he even knew what he was doing he had stepped forward and said in a low voice: „Mr. Barrow?“

 

The shape started and stumbled shakily onto its legs. Mr. Barrow's pale face shone in the moonlight like a spectre's. He stared at Jimmy for a startled second, eyes open wide, shiny with tears. Only to set out abruptly towards the gate that led onto the street. But after a step or two he stopped. And just stood there, as if contemplating. Slowly he lifted a hand to rub the tears from his face and eyes. Then, hesitantly he turned round to look so straight at Jimmy, it made him flinch. They stood in silence for a moment and Jimmy wrecked his brain for yet another snide remark. But his mind was blank. Completely. All he could do was stare at Mr. Barrow's handsome face and the strands of damp hair falling across his forehead.

 

„Jimmy“, Thomas finally broke the silence with a scratchy voice. „I'm sorry for … what I did. It was a mistake. I'm sorry …, really.“ He paused and sighed heavily, as if to say 'oh, fuck it, what's there to lose.': „I just … wanted it to be true so much, you see. I meant no harm. I … I was stupid. Just stupid“, he mumbled, looking away and already turning round to shuffle towards the gate, downcast, still clutching his cap as if it was the only thing in the world left that he could hold on to.

 

Jimmy stood still, staring after him, unable to move or to think of something to reply. Oddly touched to see the usually so sleek, confident and snarky Mr. Barrow so miserable and broken. _What's he going to do now?_ flashed through Jimmy's head. For the first time did he even remotely consider the other man's situation: Forced to leave without a reference. But he deserved it. Didn't he? The pervert. Lusting after him, Jimmy. Who would never want to … kiss a man! _Yuk_.

 

Jimmy stepped outside the yard. Unclear as to why. But he did it all the same. Just in time to see Mr. Barrow vanish in the passage that led towards the little row of small cottages. Jimmy followed him, perplexed with himself. _Just leave it be, go back inside._ He sneaked closer to where he had seen Thomas last.

„Inspecting the love nest?“ Mr. Barrow's voice stopped Jimmy dead in his tracks. „Just fetching some coal“, someone else replied. Mr. Bates. A short pause. „I envy you“, Mr. Barrow again. „Whatever you say“, came Bates' retort. „No, I mean it.“, Thomas insisted. „The happy couple and everyone is so pleased for you. Can't imagine what that's like.“

 _All right, enough now,_ Jimmy decided. _I should go back. What if he sees me? He'll probably think I am leading him on again. Now that he's lost everything, what would keep him from having another go at me?_   Jimmy hurried back inside.

 

He slid into bed, trying to avoid looking at Mr. Barrow's book on the nightstand. Better fall asleep quick to get that image of that muddled sobbing shape out of his head. But Jimmy wasn't so lucky. He wished the memory would at least make him feel disdain for Mr. Barrow. A grown man crying, what would his father have said to that: „What a weakling.“ But Jimmy failed to find Mr. Barrow weak. In fact he was quite impressed with Mr. Barrow having faced him, not appearing ashamed of his tears at all. That afforded courage - Jimmy wouldn't have dared. And it afforded courage to apologize.

No, Jimmy didn't feel disdain. But something else. Something intensely uncomfortable that he couldn't place at all.

 

He switched on the light and stared at the ceiling, which didn't help a bit to take his mind off things. _Oh what the heck._ Jimmy turned towards his nightstand. There it was. „The 39 Steps“ by John Buchan. A crime story about a man on the run. Angrily Jimmy glared at Mr. Barrow's book, being instantly haunted by the image of Thomas holding it in his hands, lingering on his bed in his pajamas ...

Jimmy did want to know how the story ended. He could still throw the book into the fire after he had finished it, right? Jimmy opened it on the page he'd marked with a movie ticket and started to read. Or rather – he tried. _I'm sorry for … what I did. It was a mistake. I … just wanted it to be true so much …_ Jimmy had to go over the page three times until he finally got a dim idea of what was being said.

 

He turned to the next the page, exasperated. And stopped short. A passage had been underlined with pencil. Mr. Barrow must have done it. It was a quote. And, strangely enough, Jimmy just had to read it once to know it by heart. He closed his eyes. _Damn you Jimmy, why did you even touch the blasted thing_ , he scolded himself. Just that one marked sentence brought back the heavy brick feeling in his stomach and the weird painful tightness in his throat.

Jimmy clapped the book shut with a thud and flung it against the wall. He tried to forget what he had just read. Oh why hadn't he just stayed inside after dinner? Why did he have to open that book? Why had he ever come to the Granthams in the first place?

 

And why did _that ghastly man_ have to turn into someone human again - by merely crying in the yard. Mr. Barrow. Thomas. Someone who felt lonely and desperate and … _Sod that_. It was so much easier to keep a distance from a sick creep who could be glad that Jimmy had not reported him to the police. He desperately tried to conjure up the anger he had felt for Mr. Barrow _that night_ in his room. _Why the fuck didn't you knock, you bloody idiot? Why did you just creep in?!_

 _And then Alfred._ Bloody Alfred, why did he have to blunder into Jimmy's room uninvited after all?! If Alfred hadn't come in they could've sorted things out and no one else would have ever known. Didn't any of those idiots know how to knock on a bloody door?! What was so difficult about that? _Knock, knock, that's all it bloody takes to keep you out of trouble._

Steps on the corridor. _Mr. Barrow returning from his nightly walk. Sleepless as well. No wonder._ The door of the room beside Jimmy's opened and closed with a creak. _I should give the book back. It is his, after all,_ Jimmy decided to his own surprise.

He got up and put on socks and his dressing gown. He couldn't open the book again anyways. Wouldn't want to – the underlined passage would haunt him, distract him from being able to grasp the rest of the story. He'd imagine Thomas's fingers sliding across the pages … Jimmy picked up the book, slipped onto the corridor and tiptoed over to Mr. Barrow's door. _Just leave the wretched thing right here on the floor_.

 

Jimmy knocked. Softly. Once. Listened. Twice. He should run. Back into his room and lock the door. Yet he remained exactly where he was. And knocked a third time. When the doorknob moved Jimmy wanted to bolt – but didn't. The door opened a sliver: and Mr. Barrow's face appeared - so pale it gave Jimmy a start. Mr. Barrow stared at him as if he was an apparition. Jimmy felt frozen. „The book“, he managed after what seemed an eternity, holding it up with both hands as if it was in any way heavy. „It's yours“, he said. Thomas looked at him, then the book, then back at Jimmy. „Yes“, he nodded without making any attempt to take it.

 „I wanted to give it back.“ Mr. Barrow glanced at it bleakly: „Did you like it?“ His voice was flat and raspy. „I didn't finish it.“ Thomas raised his eyebrows. „Keep … keep it, if you want - I like to travel light.“ Jimmy shook his head: „No … no, it's yours.“ Thomas nodded as if to say _Oh, fool that I am, of course he would not want anything to remind him of me._ He took it. „Thanks, Jimmy. Good night.“ Mr. Barrow stepped back to close the door. „Mr. Barrow -“ Jimmy started at the ugency of his own voice. Thomas stopped in mid-movement, his brow furrowed with confusion.

 

„Why … did you do it? You could've talked to me, no?“ Thomas mouth fell open at the unexpected question. „Jimmy, I … „ he stuttered, „I can't possibly discuss this here in the corridor. In fact, I think it better if no one saw us together any more anyways.“ „Why do you care?“ Jimmy hissed. „You are gone tomorrow anyways.“ Thomas flinched at the words. He nodded slowly: „True. And my reputation is in shreds - anyways. So why indeed should I care.“ „Why indeed.“ Jimmy scoffed. Thomas sighed: „Because I am a fool. And because I still care about you. Good night, Jimmy.“ He sounded so terribly tired.

”I know what it is to feel lonely and helpless and to have the whole world against me, and those are things that no men or women ought to feel", Jimmy blurted out. Thomas stared at him: „What?“ „That's the sentence  - you marked that sentence in that book.“ Thomas swallowed and looked away: „So?“ „Next time just knock, alright?“

Before Thomas could reply, Jimmy had turned on his heel and stormed back into his room. His face was burning. _Why the hell did I say that? Because I mean it?! Well, he should have knocked, right?_ Then Jimmy would have woken up and nothing of the kind that had would have happened. _Oh, sod it._ There would be no next time.

 

He got back into bed, even more unable to wind down. Scared and confused. Thomas would be gone tomorrow. Good riddance. And hopefully take all those scary, confusing feelings he caused in Jimmy with him.

 

Jimmy couldn't help but listen into the stillness. Waiting for a knock at the door. With dread and longing. But the night remained silent.  
Leaving Jimmy feeling lonely, helpless and out on his own against the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sequel - from Thomas's perspective.

_Next time just knock, alright?!_ Thomas stared after Jimmy. At a blank. Now, had that been an invitation or just sound advice? Thomas closed the door with a quiet 'click', so at a loss as to what to make of that latest confusing performance of Jimmy Kent, he simply stood motionless in a daze. Unable to decide what to do next – nor what to think next for that matter.

 

So Thomas just listened. To the sound of his heart thumping, of the blood swooshing through his body in such a turmoil that he could hear it rush within his ears. His hand was still resting on the door knob. He could simply turn it, step out onto the corridor and walk over. To knock on Jimmy's door, as just advised.

 

Yet the mere idea made Thomas cringe bringing back the crushing memory of _that_ night. The heartbreaking disappointment, the humiliation. Why hadn't he just knocked, indeed? _Because you were a bloody, stupid idiot who damn well knew he had no other chance to get a kiss from Jimmy other than to steal it._

 

Sure, Thomas could walk over to Jimmy's room. But it was not true, that he hadn't anymore to lose. He did: his freedom. Jimmy did have a last trump up his sleeve, if he wanted. He could still report Thomas to the police.

 

If Thomas walked over and Jimmy decided to freak out on the fly because Thomas had yet again misread his signs he'd be done in for the coppers. No doubt about that. Not to mention Carson and Alfred waking up and catching him in the middle of yet another stint of trying to do revolting things to Jimmy. No, walking over was out of the question.

 

Even if Jimmy let him in. What then? Would he really want Thomas to soundly explain why he had done what he had done? Thomas didn't want to talk about it. It was too embarrassing, too pathetic. Thomas was at a loss to even explain to himself logically what he'd wanted to achieve by walking in on a sleeping Jimmy. He'd been out of it, as if under a spell. His reptilian brain had taken over, simple as that.

Thomas hadn't planned to kiss Jimmy in his sleep. There had just been this strong feeling of affection, he'd looked so beautiful and everything had blurred and there had been just this one desire in the world to touch those lips with his own. And how sweet this touch had been, how soft ...

Of course Jimmy had been shocked. Startled. Scared. It hadn't been right to sneak in and do what he had done. Thomas was painfully aware of that. It had been creepy and wrong and Thomas felt ashamed. And sorry. He was grateful to have gotten the chance to tell Jimmy that. And that he had just wished it to be true so much and that he still cared. That's all he wanted Jimmy to know. There was nothing more to say. And therefore there was no reason to knock at Jimmy Kent's door. Period. There would be no Thomas and Jimmy, no matter if Thomas walked over or not. _Close that chapter. Move on._

 

Thomas was dead tired and wide awake. The mere hope to find some sleep seemed like mockery. He put his suitcase on his bed and began to fill it with his belongings. He wouldn't need half of them in Bombay. Well, maybe he could sell them or exchange them … _I know what it is to feel lonely and helpless and to have the whole world against me, and those are things that no men or women ought to feel._ Thomas couldn't get Jimmy's face out of his head, quoting that sentence from the book with the urgency of the hounded man who uttered them in the story.

He sat down beside the suitcase and buried his face in his hands. To cry silent tears. He didn't want to leave. No one was more surprised than himself that turning his back to this place would get at him at all. He'd been here for ten years. And even if the people were not his friends and tended to annoy and bore him on a regular basis they were all he had. And who knew if people elsewhere were in any way any better?

Thomas could count the people who had ever meant anything to him on the fingers of one hand. And they had all left him: Philip, Edward, Lady Sybil – and now Jimmy. Even if – technically – it was Thomas who was about to leave Jimmy. Well at least in Bombay there'd be sun. But who cared about sun, if Jimmy was thousands of miles away and out of his life forever? _Oh stop being such a bloody, soppy fool._

 He shook his head and crawled into bed at last. To dream of Jimmy screaming at him, of iron shackles around his ankles, preventing him to run away from the police who were hunting him through the forest. And of Bates opening the door of a prison cell from the inside. Looking at Thomas and greeting him with a gaunt face and an evil smirk: "Oh there you are. I've been waiting for you ...“

 

The following morning Thomas could not bring himself to greet anyone upon entering the servants' hall for breakfast. Let alone look at anyone. Least of all Jimmy. He stared into his tea, let the chatter flow in and out of his ears unheard. This would be his last breakfast at this table ever. There'd be some final packing to do and then he'd be gone. When the others got up to start the day, Thomas barely registered. No one felt inclined to say anything to him, it was as if he'd turned invisible – or into a leper. He didn't feel like saying good-bye to anyone anyways. He wanted to slip out like a ghost. As if he'd never been around at all in the first place.

 „Mr. Barrow!“ Mr. Carson's voice expelled Thomas from his limbo. He lifted his head. The servants' hall was empty save for the butler who stood in the doorframe, looking at Thomas. „We need to have a word.“ Carson nodded towards the aisle: „In my office.“ Thomas got up, feeling leaden, to follow the butler into his room. „Yes, Mr. Carson?“ What else could there be left to say?

 

Carson got behind his desk and produced a large envelope from a drawer. „Here“, he said. Thomas stared at the envelope, stupefied. „Your reference“, Carson explained with a hint of impatience in his voice. Thomas hesitantly took the envelope: „I don't understand“, he managed, feeling tears rise to his eyes. But he did.

 „It appears, young James has changed his mind“, Carson said, „he came to see me early this morning to tell me he'd thought about it and he wanted you to have a reference after all.“ Thomas swallowed hard and wondered how there were still tears left to cry after last night. _Thank you, Jimmy._ „Thank you, Mr. Carson.“ Carson cleared this throat: „Do you have further plans already?“ Thomas shook his head. _Spare me the fake courtesy, please._ „Because ...“, the butler shifted in his chair, „ … His Lordship has expressed his wish to have you on the Downton cricket team tomorrow.“ Thomas's jaw dropped.

 „ … in fact ...“ Carson continued, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval: „His Lordship has also expressed that he would like to keep you here, if things can be sorted out with James.“ He cast Thomas a grave glance: „I can't make any definitive statement yet, but if you are willing to stay on there is a certain chance to provide the possibility.“

„I don't understand“, Thomas said again – this time he truly didn't. „All I need at this point is a yes or a no“, Mr. Carson sighed. „Yes. Yes, Mr. Carson. I'd like to stay on“, Thomas replied without even a second's consideration. „Very well“, said Mr. Carson.

 

 _Next time just knock, alright?_ Who would have thought there'd be a next time? It felt terribly awkward already to merely stand in front of Jimmy's door. Like doing something incredibly taboo. Thomas stepped back a bit, then stretched his arm out. Slowly. The second his knuckles touched the wood of Jimmy's door he was convinced he'd made yet another big mistake.

 „Mr. Barrow?“ Thomas could not decide what lay behind the surprise on Jimmy's face. Was he pleased to see him, or filled with dread? Thomas stepped back yet a little bit more. He even lifted his hands defensively as if to say: _No worries, I won't try anything weird._ „I just wanted to say thank you – for talking to Carson. That's all.“ Thomas gave a nod, not waiting for or expecting a reply and turned to go. It would be the wiser decision to leave Downton after all. For Jimmy's sake. Wouldn't he feel uncomfortable around Thomas all the time? He'd really, truly have to keep his distance from now on.

 „Mr. Barrow?“ Jimmy called after him. Thomas took a deep breath. _Stop making it so hard for me not to read anything into everything you say and do._ Reluctantly he turned back towards Jimmy. „I just …“ Jimmy frowned, „I'd just like to know how … the story ends,“ he shrugged: „You know - The 39 Steps. How does it end?“

 „Oh“, Thomas said and couldn't help but smile for the first time in days (of course it would be none other than Jimmy who'd manage that feat). 'Happily', he was all too tempted to reply. „ … as far as I recall …“ Thomas paused to reconsider „ … are you sure you don't want to read it for yourself? The offer still stands – the book is yours, if you want it …?“ Jimmy averted his eyes.

Thomas groaned inwardly. _Oh Lord, am still I not tired of being rejected?_

„Um …“, Jimmy contemplated, looking up again: „ Yes, … yes, I think I'd like that, Mr. Barrow.“

 

**[Proceed to Part II: Covering Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1597841) **


End file.
